


Costumes, Candy, and Broken Childhood

by floydig



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon-typical language, Domestic, Established Relationship, Halloween, Healing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Post-Season/Series 10, Terry Milkovich's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27144493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floydig/pseuds/floydig
Summary: “The fuck’s so special about Halloween anyway?”“Halloween’s fun for the kids, Mick. Didn’t you—”Ian pauses, remembering:Do you remember when we were kids? We'd go trick-or-treating and as soon as we got home, who took all the candy?Softens his voice, “Oh, Mick.”...Mickey never got to experience Halloween as a kid. Ian’s determined to change that.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 16
Kudos: 224





	Costumes, Candy, and Broken Childhood

**Author's Note:**

> With Halloween approaching, I was thinking about the line from 10x12 where Mickey is talking to Sandy:
> 
> _Do you remember when we were kids? We'd go trick-or-treating and as soon as we got home, who took all the candy?_
> 
> I decided to take that line and expand on it a bit.

“The fuck’s so special about Halloween anyway?”

Ian looks up from where he’s layin’ on their bed, reading a book about gardening or some shit, “What was that?”

Mickey’s facing the mirror, scowling at his lavender Old Army polo. Stupid fuckin’ shirt, “I just don’t get what’s so fuckin’ great about this Halloween shit.”

Ian sits up completely now and closes his book, brows furrowing, “It’s fun for the kids, Mick. They like to dress up, play pretend, and get candy and all that. Didn’t you—”

He pauses, remembering:

_Do you remember when we were kids? We'd go trick-or-treating and as soon as we got home, who took all the candy?_

Ian’s eyes widen as he meets Mickey’s pained ones in the mirror. It’s barely noticeable, but he recognizes the slight slump of Mickey’s shoulders. He’s also doing that thing where he rubs his thumb over his index finger in small circles.

Ian remembers a story Mickey told him late one night as he whispered fragments of a brokenchildhood he’d rather forget.

...

_“You gonna dress up like a little bitch, Mickey?”_

_“Jesus, Terry. He’s fuckin’ seven.”_

_“Don’t give a shit how old he is. Dressin’ up’s for fags.”_

_“I-I was just goin’ to get some candy, Dad, that’s all. I don’t gotta dress up.”_

_Terry’s eyes gleam, “Go get your fuckin’ candy then. You all got 10 minutes. The one with the most candy won’t get their ass beat tonight.”_

...

They have these late nights sometimes.

The ones where Mickey and Ian speak in soft, hushed breaths. Ian wraps warm, strong arms around Mickey, presses his lips from his shoulder blades all the way up to that sensitive spot behind his ear, feels the tension slowly melt away.

...

Ian softens his voice, “Oh, Mick.”

Mickey’s still facing the mirror, a little too harsh to be casual, “It’s fine, man, don’t worry about it. I just don’t see how Halloween can be that fuckin’ fun when the little shits only get 10 minutes to trick-or-treat.”

Ian feels a heavy lump in the pit of stomach and back of his throat, gently, “ _Mickey_.”

Mickey turns around to face Ian, grumbling, “Jesus, this fuckin’ polo shirt, man.”

“ _Mickey_.”

Mickey’s eyebrows raise as he finally notices the shift in Ian’s tone, “What is it, Firecrotch— you alright? Are you— feeling-uh- down? I can take the day off and shit. Jake owes me for that time I covered his ass when he was fuckin’ his girlfriend in the changing room.”

Ian’s got a small, lopsided smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, “Nah, Mick, it’s not that. It’s just that— it’s not normally like that.”

Mickey tilts his head and furrows his brows, “The fuck’s not normally like what?”

“ _Halloween_ , Mick.”

“Oh. Yeah, fuck that shit.”

Ian shakes his head and chuckles grimly, still gentle, “Nah, I mean— most kids get to dress up as whatever they want. Their parents or siblings help ‘em with their costumes. Then they go out with friends and family and trick-or-treat for as long as they want ‘til it gets too late. And they get to keep their candy.”

Gruffly, “Oh. ”

Mickey pauses, “The fuck’s your deodorant?”

Ian tosses it over from where it’s sitting at the bedside table. Doesn’t say anything quite yet. Sometimes Mick just needs a gentle push in the right direction. Other times, a shove.

Mickey takes the lid off and puts some on, continues, “I figured that, man. Like— them keeping the candy and gettin’ to dress up and shit. Never thought about the other stuff too much. Just didn’t get it.”

He caps the deodorant and throws it back to Ian, “Fuckin’ love this shit. Smells like you.”

Ian grins, “Why don’t you just get your own ‘stead of usin’ mine?”

Mickey raises an unimpressed brow, “Fuck you, asshole. It’s not the same.”

Ian’s eyes warm, “Alright, Mick.”

He pats the mattress that he’s sittin’ on, “C’mere for a sec.”

Mickey ambles on over and sits next to Ian, lips turning up at the corner, “Fuck is it?”

Ian rests a hand on Mickeys’s thigh, firm, sturdy, massaging all soothing-like. Locks eyes with him, sincere, kind, “You want to help me with Liam and Franny this year with the costumes and candy and shit?”

Mickey tenses.

Ian continues, gentle, “Liam was sayin’ he wants your opinion on his costume design. AndFranny was askin’ bout whether _Uncle Mickey_ would take her trick-or-treating.”

Ian captures _FUCK_ hand where thumb is digging small circles into _K_. Applies warm, firm pressure instead. Presses into the palm. Oh, that feels pretty nice.

Now take a breath,“I-uh—maybe I do, Firecrotch.”

Mickey’s lips turn up a bit more, tentative, hopeful, “Yeah—let’s give Tiny Red and Shithead the Halloween I never got to have, man. They’re kids; they deserve it.”

Ian goes back to Mickey’s thigh, squeezes it, grounding him, “You deserve it too, Mick. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah alright, tough g—”

Then the ginger octopus motherfucker gets his hands all over him and starts pressin’ his lips all over his jaw and neck and shit. _Oh_. 

Those fuckin’ tingles. They get him every time.

...

Ian amusedly watches a flushed, much more relaxed Mick haul himself up off the bed, “Alright, fuck off, snuffles. I gotta get to Old Army. You and your fuckin’ tongue, man. Good thing I was early as shit gettin’ ready.”

Ian smirks, “You’re welcome, Mick.”

He gets lips curved up and an upside-down _C_ flipped at him for that.

“See ya tonight. I’ll bring that Chinese shit you like.”

“Sounds good. Oh— and Mick?”

“Fuck’s up?”

“The lavender really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

“Oh, real fuckin’ cute, asshole.”

* * *

Mickey used to think that broken shit stays broke.

That’s what you do, ain’t it?

When you’re six years old and you break one of Terry’s shot glasses. You were just tryin’ to reach for a couple mugs to make you and Mandy some hot chocolate, but you’re not quite tall enough yet. And Terry screams and smacks you around and makes you pick up the shards with your bare hands.

You don’t put the pieces back together; you throw that shit away.

Now he’s not so sure it has to be that way.

Ian gets him thinkin’ that maybe— _maybe_ the pieces can be put together again. Just not exactly in the same way they were before.

There’s always those tiny little slivers, the ones that don’t get picked up. So maybe— _maybe_ you’re left with all the big pieces. You can put those together, can’t you? If you really try. Maybe even get some help if you’re lucky.

And yeah, some small-ass shards are gonna be missin’. But it’s still mostly whole, ain’t it? Don’t gotta have every single piece in order to work right.

Mickey’s startin’ to see that broken shit _can_ be put together again.


End file.
